She wants me to call her back, but I won’t because I want her to know,

before I say it’s over, that it’s over. My hands are purple,

and by Friday I have more incantations and hardbacks drawn forth as the 

the machine roars and there’s no more air, no more wish except distant dinner.

Until the sun erupts last night’s ghost inside a ghost, 

and I realize that I’m drinking again. I’m weeping again, and it’s worse than ever again.

All day I squint at dirt. At night I drink to the messy world

that orders people into scarlet jumpers.

I pull the covers close and squinch my tongue to the roof of my

mouth—tonight my body hums.

Tonight it slips around libraries, churches, lecherous

in the same old places, poured over into remoteness. 

Noise appears from the drain of my mouth. I’m close to spinning now, 

drunk in a carousel of coming alive. The inside row is filled with children. 

The outside row is a swing that makes my stomach jump over sour leaves.

Days round into years and I’m still hell-bent on impressing

the Great Blonde Ear in the sky. I am skewered in the middle and controlled 

by a man in a cage who bolts steel shoes and bears crown ornaments, 

and dresses me with tiny, golden bells. 

If I can live without her, I probably will.